


You. Me. A bed.

by happywriter16



Category: Actor RPF, Devour (2005)
Genre: F/M, Het, Spoilers, the spoiler is ridiculously minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 22:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15300960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happywriter16/pseuds/happywriter16
Summary: Life imitates art. Only better.





	You. Me. A bed.

Dominique and Jensen are in bed. Whose bed? He’s not sure. He really hopes it’s not Dan’s. That would be weird. 

He’s drunk enough to be warm, loose. He’s on his back with her curled up against him, one leg slung over his lower half. He’d found her in this room. He crawled into bed because it seemed like a good idea at the time. The minute he was on his back she snuggled up close. Neither said anything except ‘hey.’ 

“We’re lame,” she says, breaking his train of thought that really isn’t much of one. 

He huffs a laugh. “Why do you say that?”

She turns her head to look at him. He can’t really see her face without lifting his head. He doesn’t really feel like moving. 

“You. Me. A bed. Just saying.” 

_Huh._ It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. She’s pretty and it’s not like they haven’t been intimate. Well, intimate like, shooting the sex scene the first day on set. It wasn’t so bad having a pretty girl on top of him acting like she wants him. It wasn’t great either. A lot of ‘hold it’, ‘move your hand’, and ‘watch the light’. Still a pretty girl. And she turned out to be pretty cool, too, when they’d hung out off set. She’s a serious flirt, flirting with everyone. And he does mean everyone. 

“You’re drunk.” Because he’s not that kind of guy.

“Not drunk.” He imagines her pouting like when Dakota had told Jake what Professor Hartney had wanted. 

His eyebrows raise. “You sure?” 

“Yup.”

“That’s what they all say.”

But she means it. Her movements are sure enough for him to know she knows what she’s doing as she slides on top of him. She kisses him like she’s been waiting for this as her hands thread through his hair, as she grinds down. He tastes the sour taste of beer and sugar from the cake on her tongue. The kiss is a little sloppy and a little wetter than he’s used to but he’s not going to complain. 

She pulls ways and moves down his body. She makes short work of removing his jeans, boxers and shoes. He watches, sitting up on his elbows, no longer too tired to move and rather impressed with her. He likes a woman that knows what she wants and goes for it. 

“You got anything?” he asks once he’s naked from the waist down. He’s got nothing. He hadn’t planned on getting lucky. Just planned on drinking until he thought it was all a dream. He didn’t quite make it. He’s going to get so much shit for doing this movie.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a foil packet. She smiles smugly as she rips it open, rolls the condom on. Then she’s hitching up her sundress - a strappy, short, yellow thing that would make Dakota proud - and walking on her knees until she right over him. He watches her fingers push aside the pale green material of her panties to reveal pale, pink skin. 

He lets her start. One, two, three slides and he’s all the way in. He has to stop her, presses his fingers into tender flesh. “Don’t move,” he hisses. She’s tight and hot and not wet enough. And truth be told, it’s been awhile for him. He moves, surges up to kiss her, which changes the angle just enough to have her gasping. He likes the sound of that. 

It only seconds before he tells her, ‘Okay, go.” His grip loosens and she’s off, moving up and down in that same jerky rhythm like that day on set that made him wonder _Who've been fucking?_ and _Fuck, I could show her a thing or two._ “Whoa, slow down,” he tells her. Dominique flushes red - well redder - with embarrassment. He smiles to take the sting out of his words. “Come here,” he says and she leans overs, hands bracketing his head. He kisses her, whispers against her lips, “Like this” as he moves her hips. Up. Down. Nice and slow. 

He moves her just long enough for her to get the hang of it. His hands roam up her torso, sliding over her soft, pale skin once he’d removed her dress completely. His mouth roams, too, over her jaw, her throat, her shoulders. Lets the salty taste of her slide over his tongue. She’s pretty quiet, only low moans every now and again, like she swallows most of them, like she doesn’t want to scream. And she shouldn’t since there are still people in the house - he’s sure - but he wants her to scream anyway. 

When he thinks he's about to come, his stops moving but his hands don't as they slide over her clit. He has to one hand to hold the now wet material out of the way while he other hand works. Part of him wants to rip the damn flimsy lace but doesn't want to piss her off. He presses down on the nub hard, loving the way she responds, her hips moving in steady grind against him. 

She straightens up and comes with both of her hands pressing his hand on her. 

He lets her relax for a second before he bucks up and has her falling back over him. He bucks up hard again and again, the slap of skin against skin loud in the room. She yelps. Her legs spread wider and wider with every snap of his hips. And that has to hurt but she likes because her moans don't sound pained at all. He keeps snapping until he’s coming white hot inside of her. ‘Fuck’ is repeated like some kind of mantra, low and breathy in his ear. 

She’s in the same position he left her in when he’d gone to get cleaned up. She opens her eyes when the bed dips under his weight. Her smile is slow, sated, sleepy, proud as she says, “Told you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Note from when I posted this back on LJ in January 2009: _I started this around Sept. Left it alone for awhile. Meant to post it. Then my computer died. Then real life kicked up. Still can’t believe I wrote it._ It's 2018 and I still can't believe I wrote it.


End file.
